The Demon's Razors
by inuzrule
Summary: Sweeney Todd is dead, but Johanna and Anthony live on. Yet, in one rash move, Johanna manages to carry the past with her to the New World. A past that still haunts her with nightmares.
1. Procrastination

** The Demon's Razors**

**Chapter One: Procrastination**

It started out so innocently.

Anthony had retrieved her from Mr. Todd's barber shop practically in hysterics and demanding that they leave for Plymouth at once. He consoled her lovingly, telling her that he would never leave her alone again. He had only to fill out a report with the constable, indentifying his dead acquaintences for who they were—revealing Mr. Todd's identity at last—and then they'd be off.

At that moment, Johanna remembered the razors. There was a whole set of them left, all clean and sparkling and…chased with silver at the handles. They would need money in Plymouth, wouldn't they? Anthony would no longer have a job as a sailor, and the razors might fetch a hefty sum.

She retrieved them from their shelf, curious to see if she had been right about the silver. She was not mistaken. And, cor, were those razors charming, as they reflected the light in them.

So she took them. And at dawn, leaning over the railing for her last glimpse at London, biting her lip anxiously in anticipation for her new beginning, she had them cradled in her arms loving. They were very reassuring, a bit of London that might actually profit them in the New World.

Upon reaching Plymouth, Johanna's first thought was to sell those silly razors. She had been having nightmares, more vivid ones that usual, always the image of Mr. Todd covered in blood, ready to kill her for witnessing the death of the Judge…the Judge that imprisoned her, yet had always provided for her. Her adoptive father of sorts. He had only meant well…hadn't he? No matter, the point was that he had been murdered before her eyes, and she had only pity for him in her heart because of that. And the very razors she held in her arms so cherishingly had played a part in killing him, maybe even others, innocents.

So why, upon setting her foot on soil for the first time in what seemed a eon, did she feel such regretful feelings about selling them? The thought nagged at her. Anthony, blissfully happy that he had made a clean getaway with his intended, pointed out the wonderous sights to be seen in the little town, ever the optimist and oblivious as always. She did love him so for his optimism, although it did irk her now and then, especially when she had weightier things on her mind.

They spent that first night in a small inn over a pub. Leaving Johanna to unpack, Anthony went down for a drink, but not before giving the key to Johanna, so she could lock the door if need be. He had been ever so careful to keep her safe since leaving London. As the door shut, Johanna's mind flitted again to the razors, now lying across the bed. Anthony had pointed out a pawn shop to her on their way to the inn. Should she sneak out while he got drunk and be rid of the frightening reminders forever?

No. It was late, and the sky was darkening. She would get lost or find herself on the end of a knife if she left now. In the morning, she reassured herself. They'd get a fetching price for sure, enough to for a year's rent at the inn.

Months passed. As each day went by Johanna swore to sell the razors, but something always popped up. First, there was the matter of her marriage to Anthony, which was simple, unlike the grandiose ceremonies of her dreams, with only the inn-keeper and his wife as witnesses. The one thing that had made Johanna happy was Anthony's smiling face as he put the ring on her finger, beaming, joyous. It gave her joy in turn to see him so happy. But even as he kissed her, so soft and sweetly, the nagging persisted in the back of her head, begging her to finally be rid of the razors now that she was starting a new life with her husband, a new slate. Tomorrow, she promised herself. Let today be unblemished; let today not be a reminder of London.

The next day, after a rather breathless night with her husband, a somewhat sore Johanna only wished to stay snug in her bed, wrapped comfortably in Anthony's arms. The night had worn her out, and she had gotten little sleep following…nightmares again, and only to wake to Anthony's snoring.

The days after that meshed into days of sewing and darning garments for small fees. One day that stood out was the day that Anthony got a job as a bricklayer. They celebrated down at the pub that night, where Johanna had her first beer. And her second. And her third. And so on. She spent most of the following day hungover, although she did try to keep up with her sewing, fruitlessly.

For a couple of months or so, Johanna spared little thought for the razors. She had settled down so nicely into her life above the pub, only leaving to attend church. The innkeeper's wife brought her orders for dresses and such as well as darning to do, and it kept her hands busy all the live-long day. Her wages went straight to paying the monthly rent, along with Anthony's modest paycheck.

It was not too long after Johanna had finished Mrs. Whitehall's daughter's wedding dress that Johanna discovered that she was pregnant. Anthony was estatic of course, and he took her out shopping. As they traversed the market, Johanna spotted a string of pearls that caught her fancy. It was then that the razors again pervaded on her mind, taunting her, telling her that if only she had sold them just the other day, during a long stretch of free time, she might already be wearing those luxurious-looking milky white treasures.

Johanna bought a rather modest dress instead, and a packet of blue silk ribbons, a color Anthony found most beautiful against her flaxen hair. He commended her on her choices, noting how practical and how pretty they were, before adding that they paled next to her beauty. Even as he spoke such words, his love for her bleeding through them in such a glaringly obvious manner, she only felt cold. The razors cut at her heart, calling her selfish, telling her that she was ungrateful, for she had such a loving husband, and she only yearned for pearls…or perhaps it was her conscious instead making such hurtful remarks, that she nevertheless knew were true.

Poor Johanna. She let the razors sit under her pillow from then on, wanting to sell them, yet wanting to keep them close. They both repulsed and attracted her, like a magnet that couldn't make up it's mind.

The days turned steadily warmer, as winter passed into spring. On the first day of summer, just as the clock struck one o'clock in the morning, Johanna gave birth to a little boy with a shock of black hair. He cried loudly and would not stop fussing until the midwife placed him into his mother's arms. Half asleep, Johanna smiled down at her baby; but before drifting into unconsciousness she had a stray thought wander across her mind: where did her child get that mass of curly raven hair?


	2. Consumption

**The Demon's Razors**

**Chapter Two: Consumption**

The years flew by, like fleet-winged songbirds, and little Benjamin Timothy Hope grew into a pale and gangly little boy. He was his mother's pride and joy, bringing her wildflowers and pretty ribbons that he bought with his own pocket money. He started to attend the little public school down the road when he was only four, and became quite the scholar. He always wanted to make her happy, and immediately sensed whenever she was not. Even if her worries were only triflings, he'd be there, grubby little fist thrusting a slightly wilted daisy in her direction.

His father, however, became increasingly uncomfortable around his son as he grew. It was as if every time he saw the child he had witnessed a ghost in the flesh. He was even uncomfortable about the name they had given their boy, Johanna's choice.

"Benjamin. That's what we'll call him. Benjamin."

"Dear…are you sure? What about Gregory? Or Jonathan? Or Timothy? My father's name was Timothy, and he grew into an outstanding man. Timothy sounds like a good choice, my pet."

"No. Benjamin. Does my baby look like a Timothy to you?"

"Yes, but dear…"

"His middle name can be Timothy, if it worries you so. But my baby is going to be called Benjamin, and that is that."

And that it was. Benjamin, or Benny as his mother called him, grew very nicely into that name, and his father grew a little paler every time he heard him called thus.

One day, when Ben was six years old, a terrible thing happened. The innkeeper, Mr. Mason, caught the consumption. Mrs. Mason was terribly worried for her aging husband's health, so she decided to move him to the mountains around Asheville, renowned for their fresh air and renewing properties. But she didn't want her husband's precious pub and inn to go to the dogs, so she asked for her sister, a Mrs. Mooney, to travel across the pond and look after things. Mrs. Mooney agreed, and the sisters made the switch only a month and a half afterwards.

Mrs. Mooney was a sharp, bitter old thing, a widow. She had made her living for years as a pie-maker in London, and almost immediately she and Benjamin struck up a sort of friendship. Both Benjamin's parents were a little uneasy with this, as Mrs. Mooney was a rather suspicious looking character, but they let Benjamin chat with the old hag, in case Mrs. Mooney decided to up their rent because of it. She had taken a real shine to Benjamin, feeding him her famous pies whenever he so much as asked, and told him all sorts of tales of her life in London. One such story was that of a certain Mrs. Lovett, an old business rival, and her supposed lover, a Mr. Sweeney Todd, the best barber—and murderer—on Fleet Street. Had Anthony not been working from sun-up to sun-down, he would have put a stop to these stories at once, but as it was Mrs. Mooney made sure to send Benjamin back up the stairs right before his father arrived home.

As it was, it happened to be Johanna who heard these tall-tales. She sat in an ancient rocker right above the store and did her sewing, and once in a while, when she paused her needle for a moment's rest, she'd hear a snatch of a song float up the stairs.

_The worst pies in London.  
And no wonder with the price of meat  
what it was  
when you'd get it.  
Never thought I'd live to see the day.  
Men'd think it was a treat  
findin' poor  
stricken creatures  
what are dyin' in the street.  
Mrs. Lovett had a pie shop.  
Did a business, but I noticed something weird.  
For a while all her neighbors went up and disappeared.  
Had to hand it to her!  
What I calls,  
enterprise!  
Poppin' people into pies!  
Wouldn't do in my shop!  
Just the thought of it's enough to make you sick!  
And I'm telling you them razorblades were quick.  
No denying times was hard, sir!  
Even harder than the worst pies in London._

The story frightened Johanna very badly, although she tried not to show it, and the very mention of razorblades made her jump in her chair. She kept her cool, and when Benjamin and Anthony arrived home she did her best to greet them warmly. She even took up knitting soon after, and the constant clatter of knitting needles made it harder for Johanna to hear any more stories from that dreadful Mrs. Mooney.

But Benjamin listened to these stories with rapt fascination, eyes wide, and mouth half-open. Johanna knew firsthand about this, watching her son and an idle Mrs. Mooney as she went out to deliver her newly made dresses. She shuddered at the thought of the hold the crone had on her precious boy. It was almost as if the witch had enchanted him.

The year Benjamin turned seven was the year another calamity struck, this one closer to home. Anthony caught the consumption. Johanna tried her hardest to ignore the wracking coughs that shuddered his slowly thinning frame, and treated his symptoms as she would treat a cold. But soon the coughing spells would last several minutes at a time. It broke Johanna's already fragile heart to see him like this. And slowly, as Anthony grew too weak for work, the coughing grew on her nerves. It chafed at the thin thread that was her sanity, and it was only a matter of time before the string snapped.

Mrs. Mooney wasn't much of a help. She did lower their rent at Johanna's desperate pleas, but it was probably more for Benjamin's sake than pity for the half-crazed woman.

The razors began to appeal to the maddened woman. She wondered if it would really be so bad to put the ill man out of his misery…Judge Turpin had used that term once, when her lapdog had contracted hydrophobia. Put it out of its misery. And every time a wheezing noise even dared to escape her wasted hubby, the phrase did a lovely tango with her beautiful salvation…her shiny set of razors.

Then, all of a sudden, Anthony began to recover. He started to eat again and sit up more. His coughing subsided. He had some color to his cheeks. And all the tension in Johanna's shoulders seemed to melt away. She began to sing joyously every morning, and on a lark bought a couple of canaries, to provide cheery music.

Anthony went back to work, and a steady paycheck came in once again. Johanna took up baking lessons from Mrs. Mooney, her happy relief giving her a new surplus of energy. Even Mrs. Mooney seemed happier now, probably because her sleep wasn't being interrupted constantly by sharp gasping noises each night anymore.

But then, only a week after returning to work, a shifty-eyed fellow showed up on Johanna's doorstep. She had been worrying about Anthony all evening, especially when he didn't come home at his usual time. He was three hours over-due, and it wasn't like him to be late. She ushered the man in rather coldly, keeping her eyes on him like a hawk.

"Missus Hope?"

"Yes, that would be me. What is it? Is it something to do with Anthony? He's been ill with consumption for a while, sir…"

"It's not that, ma'am. I hate to tell you this, but your husband was in a horrible accident."

Johanna's knees wobbled rather unsteadily. She collapsed into a little heap on the floor, just as Benjamin threw open the door. His face, which had been flushed with excitement and pride, turned to ash when he saw his mother.

"You monster! What did you do to her?"

"Your father is dead, m'boy. She couldn't handle the news."

Johanna's eyes fluttered open at this.

"I am stronger…than you'd think." She tried desperately to stand, but her head swam. Gasping, fighting unconsciousness, she grasped the nearest stable surface, hers and Anthony's dresser, and hauled herself up. Leaning heavily against the dresser, she glared at the mousy little man.

"Leave at ONCE!" Her voice became a surprising roar, considering her weakened state.

"Ma'am, the company I represent requires me to give you this severance pay…"

"Do you not understand the King's English? OUT! We don't want your money! We want my husband back! OUT, YOU VIPER!"

The man left, but not before dropping the money in Johanna's chair.

The next month or so saw Johanna fall apart at the seams. Benjamin stopped attending school to look after her, although he was still quite young. She lost the will to eat, sleep never graced her tired form, and she began to rave, speaking of blood-stained demons and their seductive implements. Sometimes she tore her hair out by the clumps, once-beautiful hair that was turning prematurely gray. Often she'd lash out at little Benjamin, who brooded whenever he wasn't caring for his mother.

Finally, an irate Mrs. Mooney clumped up the stairs to shake some sense into the woman, a worried Benjamin hot on her heels.

"Stupid ninny! Pull yourself together, you silly lark! Stop your BLOODY YELLING!" And she smacked the hysterical girl. "Do you think that you're the only one to lose a husband? To lose family? To be alone? LOOK AFTER YOUR SON! AT LEAST YOU HAVE ONE! I LOST EVERYTHING!"

Johanna seemed to snap out of it for a while, and even appeared as if she was listening.

"Learn to be strong, you foolish girl. You have responsibilities. Don't neglect those that never harmed you. And NEVER let me find another bruise on this boy!" And she slapped Johanna once more, to make her point.

Even though Johanna would never be quite the same again, the good-intentioned Mrs. Mooney had indeed slapped some sense into her. As soon as she had recovered her remaining wits, she packed all her worldly possessions, and left the inn with Benjamin in tow. Yet another new chapter of her life was just beginning.

---

_Author's Note: Poor Johanna...well, you knew it'd happen one day. I mean, her father a serial killer, her mother a total loony...and I know Lucy got that way from the arsenic, but still. She was mad enough to poison herself when she had a little baby to look after. Do you think Mrs. Lovett would've done such a thing? No._

_To whoever guessed that Johanna's baby was a reincarnation of her father, RIGHT YOU ARE! Here, have a meat pie. It's fresh. ;) I even gave him the same name, to drive the point home. Just wait until little Ben grows up..._

_Never really liked Anthony. He was destined to die, either at the hand of his crazy wife, or in a tragic accident. Pooooooor Johanna._

_What else? Oh, right! Disclaimer: I do not own Sweeney Todd or "The Worst Pies in London". Wish I did, but no. All I own is Sweeney Todd's Mini Me, and that's all._

_Reviews are love._


	3. Salutation

**The Demon's Razors**

**Chapter Three: Salutations**

_Dear Missus Hope,_

_I trust this letter finds you in good health, as well as your dear boy, Benjamin. _

_I am doing quite fine. My sister wrote to me the other day. She announced that Mr. Mason had passed away not more than a week before your Anthony did, and that I am the new proprietor of her shop. She sends her condolences. You may continue writing me at same address of residence. _

_Please tell Benjamin that I have as of late taken in a stray cat. He'll have a good laugh about that, the dear. His name is Toby, and he struts about the pub like he owns it, occasionally attending to abandoned drinks and meals. _

_Wishing you the best of luck,_

_Isabella Mooney_

Benjamin guffawed heartily as Johanna delivered the news to him. He asked to see the letter to make sure his mother wasn't pulling his leg, and laughed all the louder upon reading the print.

Nine years of age, Benjamin was quite a wonder. Done with schooling (for now at least), forced to work in the coal mines to support his ailing mother, coming home every day with a new injury and dusted top to bottom in coal, and yet he still was the most cheerful in the house, always laughing and joking, always poking fun at the most dire of plights.

Between belly laughs, he explained to his bewildered matriarch that once, long ago, during her days in London, Mrs. Mooney had owned a shop that sold meat pies. One day, infuriated at the inflated prices of meat and sick to death of hearing her neighbor's cat yowling away beneath her window, she grabbed the poor creature out of the gutter, wrung its neck like you would a chicken, and stuck it in a pie. It became a tremendous success, so Mrs. Mooney continued with other strays. She did this for at least a year, before Mrs. Lovett (here Johanna cringed) up and bested her with even tastier meat pies. Of course, Mrs. Lovett's pies were even worse than the kittypies Mrs. Mooney served, but the customers didn't know that. Obviously.

Johanna would've winced at such a tale, but her face felt too lined to even try such an act. At the ripe-old age of twenty-six, Johanna felt as if she were sixty. She looked as if she were in her early forties at least, what with her graying hair and deep worry lines on her forehead and around her mouth. The only untroubled part of her face was her eyes. Of course, eyes never really revealed much to Johanna, not even in her innocent years. The Judge's eyes were stern but stoic, and it had seemed as if nary a perverted or disturbed thought crossed through his head. Mr. Todd's eyes had only shown bloodlust the one time she saw them, and not the infinite sorrow and wisdom Anthony said the man had possessed when he knew him. Benjamin's eyes were wide and carefree. Her own eyes were deep blue and as calm as a deep lake on a breeze-less day. Eyes, she felt, revealed nothing but lies.

Sighing, Johanna stirred the small kettle pot of stew, more broth than anything, and thought once more of her once carefree life. She imagined herself oftentimes still trapped in that damask cage, an obedient but dull wife to the Judge. She would have been rich and eternally young, relying on powders and creams, and gloves and salves, and balms and aloe, and make-up and jewelry when her body's natural reserve of beauty began to fade. She would have been catered to, pampered like a pedigreed lapdog, displayed like a show horse. It wasn't that hard of a life to consider.

But then…her Judge was a rough and tempered man, she knew that now, and he had never matched up to her Anthony. Anthony may not have thrilled her to the very core, the way she thought true love would be like, but he had been kind and gentle, never forcing her into something she didn't want or making her listen to his every word. The only thing he had ever truly argued about with her was their son's name.

And speaking of Benjamin, what would have happened to _him_ had she rejected Anthony? The Judge didn't like children, she knew that, and even if he had let her carry a child to term, would her sweet Benjamin have been the same? Would he have even been Benjamin? Probably more like a Zacharias Thomas Chauncey Turpin the third, or whatnot, and with a personality to match that mouthful. No, she would rather take her Benny any day.

Looking around the modest room they owned over the tailor's—small bed in the corner, a goodly-sized trunk at its foot; the dresser Anthony had bought when Ben was only a toddler; the small table and matching chairs that she had scavenged and bargained down to half their original price; a new wire birdcage with canaries inside; her little kerosene stove to cook by—she had to admit that she lacked for nothing. She only wished that she could make enough on her own in order to let Ben quit his job at the mines.

The small town of Harrison, Pennsylvania was infamous for the large vein of coal running underneath. Many a miner had died in the mines, and many more had contracted the black lung, but the mines were the only source of income, unless one had a trade. The mining town provided its own grocers and teachers and even clergymen! The only way to make an honest profit without help from the mines was to be a craftsman, like the tailor down the stairs, or the tanner down the road, or the cobbler across the street, or the baker one door down.

At times, Johanna flashed to the thought of selling her razors, for which an even heftier sum they would fetch in this backward town, but she knew that only a true barber would appreciate the tools. Besides, in such a small town, the neighbors would begin to wonder about where she got such blades, and poor painfully honest Johanna hadn't the heart to reveal that she had stolen them from a serial killer in London.

Years passed in that quiet little town. Johanna couldn't exactly pinpoint when, but sometime during those years Benjamin developed black lung disease. He tried bravely to muffle his wheezing coughs, knowing how his mother shuddered fearsomely even when he had the slightest of colds, but he couldn't contain it for long.

Johanna took her son out of work when he was thirteen. She strictly forbade him to do any more work in the mines, and came to the realization that she should have done so before it came to this. The local doctor assured her that Benjamin's form of black lung was mild, and it would only cause him slight discomfort, but Johanna could not let her child continue to develop the disease. He began attending school when he could, and even began to excel once more, especially in English.

She found herself taking in more work as a seamstress than before. Her eyesight grew more strained with each day, and her shoulders, once thin and square and proud, became terribly hunched. She felt as if all the distress in the world rested on those shoulders.

Finally, enough was enough. Johanna once more packed her bags, and hauled tail south, to the mountainous regions of North Carolina, around Asheville, to be precise.

---

Dear Readers,

I am so sorry you have to put up with this fluffy excuse for a chapter. I promise, Sweeney's Mini-Me will turn evil in a little bit (especially after learning to shoot cute and fuzzy forest critters in the backwoods of the South), but first I had to get out that little introspective rant of Johanna's...I may dislike Anthony to some degree, but he's still a better choice for Jo than Judge Turpin. Ugh. Hate that man.

The titular tools of destruction and demonic desires will soon play a very big part in the storyline. However, it's very late, I have school tomorrow, and I need some much deserved rest. In a few hours, you'll get your murder, you sick people. In the meantime, amuse yourself with the thought of Mini-Sweeney in a coonskin cap!

PS: I am sorry to say that I WON'T be resurrecting Mrs. Lovett...at least, not anytime soon. There is only one Mrs. Lovett, God rest her fictious soul. RIP.


End file.
